Under trees outside his house, Stephen Nevil fastens a trailer carrying two empty 700-gallon tanks to his green pickup. The Army veteran wheezes with emphysema and has to sit every few minutes to catch his breath.

Stephen Nevil, 78 (Jae S. Lee/The Dallas Morning News)

(Staff Photographer)

Nevil, 78, is once again making a five-mile round trip to nearby Combine to bring water home to his family, something he does every week or so. He lives in the green pastures of unincorporated Dallas County, a place officially called "No Town" in property records but where some 7,400 people make their lives. The homes are man-made patches surrounded by wilderness — a wilderness you might not expect just 30 minutes southeast of downtown Dallas, with its gleaming skyscrapers and manicured parks, where water flows freely from faucets and fountains.

"We're in the city of nothing," Nevil says. He is one of dozens, possibly hundreds, of residents who the county estimates lack access to running water.

The need for water, and the challenges to get it here, have sparked a showdown over the role of local government between County Judge Clay Jenkins and Commissioner John Wiley Price.

The fight boils down to how much county government should do to provide for residents who choose to live in areas where there are few public services. It's a difficult clash to resolve: any serious effort to provide water to people like Nevil could cost millions of taxpayer dollars. And the areas in question are in the floodplain. The county would rather no one live there at all — but the vast, cheap land has attracted country-minded folks who couldn't otherwise afford a rural life so close to the city.

Over the past year, rain has flooded the grassy, muddy 39-acre plot near Seagoville that Nevil bought two decades ago. Little ponds dot the land. Nevil's neighbor, Fernando Grimaldo, 38, who moved to the country to escape a gang life in Pleasant Grove, doesn't hate it. He stocked his pond with bass to fish. But the neighbors would much rather have a way to drain their land. Nevil's had to sell most of his cows because the pastures are submerged.

Worse, Nevil and others believe that flooding over the past year has caused dirt and sewage to enter wells they've long relied on. So they have to haul in water for drinking and washing. It's not clear whether the wells are unsafe. The county hasn't tested them.

For now, Nevil and his neighbors are on their own in the search for fresh water. Alone, it would take the frail Nevil four hours to complete the trip. But with Grimaldo's help, he can get it done in an hour or so.

***

On the road outside Nevil's home, a crew working for the county uses an excavator to dig trash, leaves and dirt from the drainage ditches. Commissioner Price is proud of their work. They keep the ditches clear and the roads smooth, he says, unlike the pothole-pocked city of Dallas.

Price has represented the area for more than 30 years. To him, the crews fulfill their duty to the community. They're doing the best they can. But there's only so much a drainage ditch can do in a floodplain. The county isn't supposed to provide water to people, he says — that's a city's job.

Commissioner John Wiley Price's Road and Bridge District 3 crews work on a drainage ditch alongside Bilindsay Road in southeastern Dallas County.

(Jae S. Lee/Staff Photographer)

He's made efforts in the past, especially with Sandbranch, a poor black community of about 100 people whose well water has been undrinkable for three decades. At one point, Price found funding for trash pickup, but the money ran out.

As for providing water, he says the strict federal floodplain regulations, along with the high cost of installing water and sewer pipes for a tiny population, seemed insurmountable.

Plus, he says, many residents move here precisely to escape government intrusion.

"If they want to live like this, let 'em," Price says. "These people are out here because, hell, they don't want to be bothered."

Commissioner John Wiley Price points out a flooded area in his district during a recent drive around unincorporated areas in southeastern Dallas County.

(Jae S. Lee/Staff Photographer)

Price, who faces trial on federal corruption charges next year, made the opposite life choice in his path to becoming one of the county's most powerful politicians. He left the country behind with childhood memories of long days pulling cotton in Forney. He lives in Oak Cliff now.

County staffers are drafting a plan they aim to present in September for what more, if anything, the county should do to provide services and regulations in "No Town."

A house is flooded in an unincorporated area of southeastern Dallas County.

(Jae S. Lee/Staff Photographer)

"The unincorporated area's a mystery for all of us," says Rick Loessberg, the county's planning director. "It may be that our current service levels are exactly where they need to be."

Ideally, the county would want cities to annex these areas. But officials, including Price, say that'll never happen with land that's flood-prone and filled with poor people. They would need costly services and not contribute much to the tax base.

Unincorporated Dallas County accounts for 9 percent of the county's land — but only 0.3 percent of its population and 0.2 percent of its residential property values. The average home is worth about $57,000.

Like Price, Jenkins also grew up in the country. In Waxahachie, his family relied on wells for water. He remembers the rural lifestyle fondly, though now he lives far from it, in Highland Park.

Jenkins' philosophy on the issue differs fundamentally from Price's. Jenkins says he sees the government's role as one that should try to help people. Many of the residents probably wish they could afford to move somewhere with tap water, he says.

"We have a particular duty to those in the unincorporated areas," Jenkins says, "because we're the only layer of local government for them."

Dallas County Judge Clay Jenkins (left) and Commissioner John Wiley Price have clashed over philosophical differences on the role of local government.

(Andy Jacobson/Staff Photographer)

Jenkins says he wants to help if he can. He's already working with the U.S. Department of Agriculture, which helps provide rural areas water, to study Sandbranch. He's willing to make similar efforts for the other residents, too.

Jenkins disagrees with Ronald Reagan's famous quip about the nine most terrifying words in the English language.

"We can be the government," Jenkins says, "and we can be there to help you."

That's what Nevil and his neighbors are hoping for — some basic necessities like flood control and water lines.

"It's a nice place to live most of the time — until you get to the water thing," says Alysa Irvin, 19, whose family has lived there for generations.

Two years ago, Irvin was showering to prepare for her high school prom when the water ran out. She had to get into the car soapy and drive to her sister's house to rinse off.

***

Fernando Grimaldo (right) helps his neighbor Stephen Nevil buy water at the Combine water tower.

(Jae S. Lee/Staff Photographer)

Nevil pulls into the lot for the white-and-blue water tower. Grimaldo climbs atop the trailer and connects a green hose to the tank. Nevil takes out a Tupperware container filled with quarters and slides one into the slot. Water flows into his tank.

Each quarter buys about 20 gallons. Two 700-gallon tanks last Nevil and his wife a week. This water isn't potable — it's for bathing and washing dishes and clothes. They have to buy drinking water separately.

When both tanks are full, 12,000 pounds bears down on Nevil's tires. Nevil's had several blowouts on the drive home.

Pulling back into his driveway, Nevil hates seeing the water in his yard.

"I see something I can't do nothing with, or about," he says.

He sits on a milk crate, puffing on his inhaler. Grimaldo connects a white hose from the tanks in the shed to the ones on the trailer. The water splashes in.

A bottle of brownish, bad-smelling water came from the well at Stephen Nevil's house, which is located in an unincorporated area of southeastern Dallas County.

(Jae S. Lee/Staff Photographer)

Nevil fills a clear plastic water bottle from his well. It shows a brown tint and smells like feces.

County officials say they're not sure whether anyone's tested the wells in the area recently, or whether they really are contaminated. But residents feel pretty certain.

"Think that's safe to drink?" Nevil says. "Tell 'em, 'Come on down here,' and I'll pour 'em up a drink."

The former Army paratrooper says he's never asked anyone for help. But he believes the county taxes he pays should help with flood protection and procuring water.

"Are they gonna do anything, or do they not give a crap, or what?"

Fernando Grimaldo pulls a hose to fill up his neighbor Stephen Nevil's water tank at Nevil's house, which is located in an unincorporated area of southeastern Dallas County.